


Freedom

by WahlBuilder



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Caretaking, Fighting Ring, M/M, Pre-Relationship, twenty headcanons in a trench coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 08:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18869977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Maxwell Roth has sacrificed so much on his way to where he is, and when the twin Assassins arrive to his city, he needs to know what they are to determine what to do.





	Freedom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GavImp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GavImp/gifts).



> For a dedicated RothFrye fan who keeps the ship sailing. You have reminded me just how much I love them and need them.

Taking London wasn’t easy—but Maxwell was ever tenacious. His life was stolen from him once, twice—and yet he persevered, out of spite. The world claimed he was a nuisance at best, a danger to be eliminated at worst—worse than nothing. So, he persevered for himself, then for Lewis, when it was the two of them. He dragged himself out of hell because someone had to take care of Lewis. And then, of others.

They flocked to him, and he picked them up: like him, poor, unneeded, used and thrown out into the gutter. Most of them had families, kids to feed. Some of them _were_ kids. He made himself anything, everything they needed: a protector, a mentor, their chief. Their shield. A nightmare that stood between them and the world that wanted them gone.

They were his, and he stole, threatened, blackmailed, killed for them. He brought them to life and buried them.

It was not easy even then.

When his livelihood was taken from him for the third time, it wasn’t just him, wasn’t even just-him-and-Lewis now. People depended on him.

When Starrick came… Max wasn’t blind to Starrick’s not even hatred, but barely hidden indignation at the necessity to go into the Underworld (never mind that many denizens of the Underworld ended up there due to Starrick and the people of his circle). Starrick came not without a plan. The timing was precise, deliberate, and Max saw it… But pride was nothing when the choice was between selling himself—and dying of starvation. Letting _others_ die of starvation.

And with Starrick’s money, he could do so much.

(His demand was, the Alhambra. He’d laid out a whole list of reasons for Starrick (it was a good front, it could provide revenue, it was in the middle of things)—all reasons except for the truth. Starrick would have never understood. And Starrick gave him the money, not even listening to the whole list, and told him to do what he pleased as long as he had London for Starrick.)

Starrick certainly couldn’t have deluded himself with thinking that Maxwell Roth, the Crimson King of London and the towns London was swallowing, would be grateful. It was just business.

Starrick didn’t think of Maxwell Roth and his people at all. In Starrick’s universe, they didn’t exist, and he only permitted the possibility of their existence just when he couldn’t do without it.

But the truth was, London never was Starrick’s.

It was Max’s.

And then, the Rooks came.

***

‘Mr Roth, are you certain?’

‘Oh, Lewis, my dear, did you think I would miss a chance to do a little brawling?’ He takes off his coat, and Lewis accepts it, as unperturbed as ever—but Max knows to read worry in the tightening of Lewis’s mouth.

He sweeps the ongoing scuffle with his gaze, carts overturned to serve both as borders of the ‘battlefield’ and to deter the coppers,—then Max glances at Lewis again. (Fire sings in his veins; he is already there, on the cobblestones, with his people.)

‘I will be fine, _mon ami_.’ He pulls on his gloves, flexes his fingers, bounces on his heels. His jacket is crimson, like those of his people, and stained with old blood, and sturdy.

‘Please try to not get too hurt.’

He smiles and waves. ‘I’ll try. _Varda!_ ’

***

He hisses when the needle pricks especially noticeably, but Lewis doesn’t say anything to him, only continues stitching him. Lewis knows this pain is needed to bring him back from the roaring abyss of fire.

It is a familiar routine.

‘How many, Mr Roth?’

‘Ten.’

Death is nothing to fear. Death brings relief from pain, from suffering; it is an escape from the terrible reality of a poorhouse, a workhouse, gaol, madhouse. The final escape, the triumph over those who enslave and abuse. (And what a horror when they try to deny it to you.) The last resort.

_‘A welcome guest.’_

Of course, Max would prefer that his people live a long life without suffering, in dignity, with everything they need. But between being on the streets and selling themselves for scraps, and dying from an Assassin blade, quick and without pain, dying as fighters… It’s not a bad alternative. They rest now.

He repeats their names as Lewis stitches his shoulder:

Katherine O’Brian

Natasha Volkova

Maximilien

Jan Maderski

Victor

Little Bear

Marvellous Jane

Antoine Rouge

Benjamin P.

Max doesn’t fear death—but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t mourn them. The Blighters have become so numerous that new members arrive and pass without ever meeting him face to face, they know Maxwell Roth as a myth more than a person (and the many lies that trickle down from Starrick and his cronies). But he knows their names. They are still _his_ , whether they know him or not, whether they meet him or not.

And he mourns—not their lives, but the dream of them having a better life—better than the best he could give them. An impossible dream.

 _‘Work hard; be grateful for what you have,’_ the Starricks of the world say—but Max knows it to be a lie to keep those like him complacent, invisible. Telling them it’s their own fault they are poor, ill, need to steal, and that it is for their own good that they remain so, and that they should be _grateful_ for the scraps they are given.

It wasn’t Max’s fault that his family troupe starved in the forties. It wasn’t Max’s fault that his circus, his trapeze, his _flying_ was taken from him, even though he worked hard.

But he burns with silent rage that has no outlet—because he wants to give his people _so much_ , and can only give them so little: a shelter, a promise that when the suffering becomes unbearable he will be there to ease it; his company, his protection; food for their families. A promise he makes to each and every new Blighter: they will never starve with him. No matter what happens.

And they can walk the City of London, the Strand, the Royal Gardens, among the perfumed, be-laced public, and that public cowers before them but wouldn’t dare to drive them away. Not anymore.

He wishes he could give them more. Wrench every Templar neck, all those who sneer at them and abuse them. Open up the streets like veins, and let all that filth flow—to the City where they would wall it up and then set it on fire.

‘…xwell? Oberon?’

He blinks. ‘I’m here. I’m here.’

He lifts his arm to help Lewis put gauze on his shoulder. Frowns, listening to the chorus outside. ‘They are singing it too slowly.’

_…long live the noble Queen…_

Lewis lingers, his fingers warm on Max’s skin. ‘No, I don’t believe so, Maxwell.’

Lewis addresses him by the first name only when he’s worried.

Max looks at him. Lewis steps back, to the desk where a metronome stands, and sets it up.

Tock. Tock. Tock.

_…scatter her enemies…_

Lewis is right. They even get it faster on every other line. But it still feels like they are too slow.

Lewis stops the metronome, a subtle look of on concern on his face. ‘You need rest, Maxwell.’

He sighs, trying to pull up the sleeve. ‘I need this edge, Lewis.’

‘Maxwell.’

Lewis doesn’t change his tone, but they’ve been looking after each other for almost ten years already, and Max knows how to read him: fingers stroking the wood of the desktop, a roll of his shoulders… Lewis is not a street brawler, his weapons are a _Châtellerault_ and quickness—but most of all, his ability to read his environs. To read Max himself, when Max cannot.

And Max trusts his reading.

‘I will rest,’ he acquiesces to his friend.

‘No staying awake until the sunrise,’ Lewis says.

He nods with a smile. ‘You are entirely right, my friend. Thank you.’ He rubs his shoulder. It stings, and the stitches pull. He has to be careful to not undo Lewis’s meticulous work. ‘What do we have on those Frye twins?’

‘They are born-Assassins, and Mr Starrick doesn’t think much of them.’

‘Of course he doesn’t,’ Max grumbles to himself, buttoning his shirt. ‘Perhaps you could ask Mr Wynert?’

Lewis is motionless, then inclines his head. ‘I shall enquire.’

‘Thank you. Meanwhile, I shall follow the twins.’

‘Be careful, Mr Roth.’

‘When am I ever not careful?’

***

The sister is not easy to spot: she is very good at keeping to the shadows, blending in. Max is impressed: it’s been a long time since he’s met someone with such awareness of their surroundings.

But it is his city.

He follows her for a few days. She prefers to keep to herself—or rather, to her plans. She observes, then executes. In combat, her anger blazes through—but it is shaped, controlled, used as another tool. She fights to incapacitate as quickly as possible.

Her absolute focus seem to broaden her perception of her surroundings. She is beautiful in the mathematical execution of her plans, and ruthless, but isn’t generous with violence. If Altair had seen her, he would have been proud. She follows the particular side of the Creed that the ancient Eagle had envisioned, designed, brought to life.

And while she interacts with the Rooks, they keep a respectful distance. They are fond of her, but a little afraid of her also.

Max makes a note for himself to keep track of Miss Frye’s progress and relax the Blighter presence around her targets, especially when those targets are Templars.

Then, the brother.

Traversing the rooftops like the namesake bird of the gang, broad-shouldered and strong—but while Miss Frye is purposeful, choosing the shortest, most effective route to her destination, Mr Frye often stops and closes his eyes, tilts his head. Listening.

Listening to the city.

And Max sits a few rooftops away, and watches this boy absorbing his city. The whistle of a train, the controlled loud chaos of a warehouse by the water, kids playing ball, a barge on the Thames. Mr Frye can sit like this for hours—and then something shifts, Max feels it change in the city—and Mr Frye is already on the move also.

Max decides to stop following him for a while. As a precaution, so that Mr Frye doesn’t notice him—but as a test for himself, too: would he be able to find the young man again?

He does find Mr Frye. It’s no effort at all: Max knows where Mr Frye would be—because on a day like this, warm when you stand in the sun but bone-chilling cold in the shade, the day when you can sense the spring just a few moments before it enters the stage—there is energy in your blood, rising, calling.

Max finds Mr Frye where Max himself would have gone. Years ago.

‘Mr Roth, you can’t participate, you know the rules.’

He sighs and waves at Robbie. ‘My dear boy, I am perfectly aware that the restriction on my participation hasn’t been changed. I am not here to take part in the revelry. I am here to watch. Am I not permitted even that?’

Just for a moment, Robbie’s gaze flicks to the side—where Max has already noticed the broad-shouldered Assassin.

Robbie is working with them—he’s been working with Jaya for years. Max considers what the twins might want from Robbie. A way of securing additional funds, certainly—but Robbie is good for obtaining information also. Who gambles, who loses at bets and in the games, who comes to fight, drawn by the call of blood, who rushes to the races. And Robbie is cautious by the nature of his work. He wouldn’t trust any passer-by.

‘All right, Mr Roth. Come in. But you can’t bet either.’

‘I know, Robbie. I’m not here for that.’

The foundry provides a multitude of noises and even more sensations: shouts and hiss, heat and vibrations. Max would have climbed up, up to the gantries, on top of the kilns, but it might attract attention, and he’s not here for that either. He works through the crowd to a dark corner by the foreman’s office. People jostle around him, and he tries to not be swept by their excitement.

His position is not perfect, there are too many people between him and the ring, but he can see some of it nonetheless.

Mr Frye steps into the ring amids cheers, and Max is thrown momentarily into memories of some years ago, when he was—

He makes himself concentrate on the present.

Mr Frye is handsome though a bit pale. His shoulders are as broad as the coat suggested, dark hair on his chest, his built powerful, sculpted by physical work—but there is softness about him, too. He wasn’t born on the streets—but he is not like Starrick either.

Max’s gaze lingers on the tattoo of a sweeping bird.

Mr Frye is also very, very young. He grins so youthfully, raising his fists to the cheers—enjoying attention, flushed—but Max doesn’t think he’s vain. Perhaps he hasn’t been praised enough.

Robbie makes a small speech, announces the prize for the first round—and the contenders enter the ring, four of them. One wears a yellow-green sash about their hips—a Rook taking the chance to challenge leadership in the gang? Or perhaps, simply enjoying the wrestling.

Then it begins.

The foundry fades away as Max watches.

Mr Frye is beautiful. Dancing away from blows and grinning when they reach him, and charging again and again. He catches one—not a Rook—by the ears, and Max almost cries out at the staggering head blow. Deadly, and as dangerous to Mr Frye as it is to his opponent, it must be executed so precisely. Which Mr Frye does, apparently with no harm to himself, used to this move—and to a devastating effect on his opponent who staggers, eyes watering, blood pouring down their mouth, chin, neck.

Mr Frye only grins again, charges at another, once more, once more.

Max hardly notices the passage of time: he is there on the ring. The exhilaration of the fight courses through his veins like a blaze, the dry, blunt blows make his fists ache. He is there, ducking, punching, dancing away and forward, the taste of freedom sweeter than wine on his lips, metallic like blood.

He hears the cheers, and the wave of them rushes over—but wrong, and he sways, realising he’s looking at the ring as an outsider.

Robbie is lifting Mr Frye’s hand. Mr Frye’s chest is heaving, his skin glistening with sweat, pale-silver with the rouge of blood smeared over it like paint on silk.

Max steps back, rests his temple on the wall, the rhythm of his heart misaligned with the rhythms of the foundry.

He makes his away back, out, to the air, but the cheers cling to him like cobwebs.

He mourns the taste of freedom, already fading.

He has to study Mr Frye more.

He has to meet him, one way, or another.


End file.
